


Love and Irene

by ImpossibleCherryBlossom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpossibleCherryBlossom/pseuds/ImpossibleCherryBlossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps love had been her downfall in an old life, in the new one, it was her salvation. </p>
<p>Irene and Kate post "A Scandal in Bohemia"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Irene

Perhaps love had been her downfall.   
But it was also her salvation, and unlike Sherlock, she understood this. Understood that the two are inexorably joined.   
She knew he would save her. Certainly, when she was on her knees in the desert sand, head covered, given a last few minutes with her phone, her life, her faith in him had faltered. Only somewhat, yet it remains a testament to her strength that she did not emote then in any way--did not display fear, or sadness, or loss. Only for Irene was certain death in fact uncertain. Or Irene and Sherlock, more accurately.   
She will never see him again, but that’s all right. Their love has run its course, has played its game. It was intense and undeniably true while it lasted, but it lasts no more. 

Irene was back in London. She couldn’t stay--and that pains her, oh, how she loves this city--but she needs to gather some things of hers. Her camera phone was her old life, but her next life is secure in a package in her house, in a different safe, a different combination.   
She recreates herself every now and then, and while each time she is the same person in a new way, a new situation, something of the old situation carries itself over. In this case, that is money, money and security. Sherlock was wrong, she did make copies (though not of everything) and she kept some particularly sensitive information off her phone entirely. These particular tidbits are of no interest to the British government, nor she thinks to the Americans, but of quite some interest to the French. Poor Sarkozy. She knows what his ex-wives like.   
So she’s back, back in the beating heart of the city, fascinated by all the people pulsing through the streets, all the desires and all the secrets. This place has been both hunting and hiding ground for her, in her old life, but that’s over now. That life is done, that woman dead. 

She reaches her doorstep, fiddles with the key. After unlocking the door she completes all the steps in the elaborate security system, which requires not only fingerprints and retinas but knowledge and occasionally a more crude variation therein. She’s just set her purse down when a voice comes drifting down the stairs.  
“You’re back.” She recognizes the speaker instantly, and how could she not?   
“Kate” she breathes, just as the woman in question rounds the corner of the staircase and comes into view. “I told you to leave. What if they found you, what if--”  
“I couldn’t leave you, Rena.” Kate is forceful, far more so than usual. Or how she used to be, at least. Irene has no concept of usual, not anymore. Not while she’s in limbo between lives. “Believe me, I tried. I tried to erase you, tried to begin a new life for myself, as you told me to, but I couldn’t do it.”   
“I almost died Kate. I might never have come back, and then where would you be?”   
“You always almost die, but never manage it. You always come back. Besides, we’re here now. This is the present, this is our life and, you’re here.” Kate is standing in front of her now, Irene’s back pressed against the table they chose for the entryway hall. “Thank god, you’re here.” 

Kates’ hands ghost from Irene’s jaw down to her sides, until at last they come to rest just above her wrists. The kiss is fierce, consuming. Kate is full of fire, and Irene herself is a flame. When they finally part, Irene is numb, blissed-out, unaware (only Kate can make her like this, drop her guard) so the slap shocks her. It is a hard slap, too, sends her reeling.   
“Don’t you ever do that again.” Irene clutches her face and tries to concentrate, to comprehend what Kate doesn’t want her to do. Startled by the pain, her mind draws an utter blank. Blessedly, Kate clarifies, “Don’t you ever run off in love with some impersonal computer of a human and damn near get yourself killed while I just have to sit here and watch. Watch you first seduce him and then find that in some, accidental, fucked-up way, he’s seduced you. Don’t you dare go off to the Middle East to be relieved of your head only to be saved by the same bastard that landed you there in the first place or goddamn it all, Irene, I will make you pay.”  
“Kate?” Her anger is a surprise, though not an unwelcome one.   
“I love you, Rena! Goddamn it, I loved you then and I loved you waiting in this house for all these months and I love you now!”   
Irene almost bursts then--she regrets the pain she put Kate through, regrets her blindness to Kate’s feelings. She wants to sing and jump for joy, to fall into Kate's arms, to proclaim to the world that she is loved. And though she learned long ago to perfectly suppress all these instincts, she wonders if perhaps Kate could teach her to undo that training.   
“I love you, Kate.” Kate’s head, which had been adamantly focused on her feet, raises as she meets Irene’s eyes.   
“That was a lifetime ago, Kate. And though I regret that I did not see...this...then, I acted on what was true at the time. But that time is done, and I love you. I love you now.” She realizes Kate is crying, and she wraps her in her arms, kisses the tears away. “I love you now.” 

The next morning, they are eating breakfast together. Each reads a different newspaper--the past year has taught them that little is as important as current events--and eats cereal. The entire scene is eerily domestic, for them, but both enjoy it, oddly. Enjoy stereotypical normalcy to pair with their actions the night before, their desires, which are surprisingly normal considering how rarely such things are discussed.   
“Run away with me.” Kate looks up from her newspaper to meet Irene’s eyes. Rena’s having one of her bluntly intense moments, legs crossed, leaning forward on her elbows. The pose emphasizes how lanky Irene can be, how long her limbs truly are, and Kate finds it beautiful.   
“Of course.” Kate answers as though Irene has asked her to pass the sugar, and smiles up at her.

They live in San Francisco, now. It turns out the Americans were interested in the leftovers of their old life, and they aren’t complaining. They have a beautiful row house, and Irene has no shortage of work (she briefly considered switching professions, but decided against it), but now that work takes place outside their house at Kate’s insistence. Irene easily agreed, so they set up an entirely separate loft for that purpose, on the other side of town. That place is the domain of The Woman, but now when Irene comes home she is Rena, she drops The Woman from her identity and is just herself.  
Irene had been in love with Sherlock’s brain--the way it solved puzzles, the way it was a challenge to her own, a beautiful game. And that was love, in her past.   
Irene is in love with Kate’s soul. With the way she sees the world, the way she lets Irene in, her emotions and passion. And this is love.


End file.
